


Exit Music

by hawkeye47836



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mutual Pining, Queer Themes, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-10 04:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19899700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeye47836/pseuds/hawkeye47836
Summary: “But this didn’t feel like magic. It felt a lot older than that. It felt like music.”-Terry Pratchett, Soul Music





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley was not nearly as far behind on culture as Aziraphale. He liked to pride himself on being _hip_ , on being _current_ , and, most importantly, on being _cooler than the angel_. Crowley owned and operated one of the very first automobiles ever released to the public. He got a new phone every year like clockwork, and even learned to look more-or-less like he knew how to use the damned thing. He kept his fashion choices personal, modern, sleek and stylish, and very much prided himself on looking as though he belonged, no matter the era.

The point was, Crowley was up-to-date with all the latest trends. He even listened to modern music, or music produced recently enough to count as “classic” rather than “ancient.” He told himself that he had important reasons for doing these things: that it would save him countless tiny miracles if people weren’t suspicious of him from the start, that he’d be better at tempting the general populous if he researched their interests, that the look on Aziraphale’s face when introduced to hair metal made the whole effort more than worthwhile. It was practical, he insisted to himself. Crowley was a _demon_ , after all, and would never actually “go native.” He’d never, for instance, pick a favorite song, or develop an inexplicable fondness for one particular automobile and refuse to upgrade…

...well.

It was in the shops that it happened. For once, Crowley wasn’t even trying to pretend that he was on any official, nefarious business - he simply wanted to get out of the awful damp. There were plenty of things he’d grown to truly enjoy about living in London, but the weather was not one of them, he mused as he picked over a cheerily decorated display. Having waited out the worst of the rain, Crowley spotted something that caught his interest and bought a box of assorted chocolate-covered strawberries before preparing to duck back out into the breezy evening. He paused for a moment, just to politely inform the cashier that the strawberries had gone missing and that she had never seen him, and that’s when he heard it. The song.

It was playing over the speakers in the speakers and followed him through the aisles as he headed for the exits, mocking him. Crowley scowled.

He’d had songs stuck in his head before. Usually, they heavily featured Freddy Mercury and he blamed his car. Occasionally, he’d hear a melody somewhere that simply annoyed its way into his brain and refused to leave for an hour or two. Once or twice, he’d heard music that had struck him as interesting, or beautiful, or clever, and he’d happily hum it to himself for a few days afterwards. But this song had been out for _years_. It was a hit in the _nineties_ , for Someone’s sake. By early 2008, Crowley had been hoping to be past this… and yet here it was, playing on the radio, and here he was, muttering the words under his breath and pretending not to flee the mall.

_But I’m a creep..._

Crowley grit his teeth and made his way to the parked Bentley. Setting the strawberries on the passenger seat, he cranked the volume on the radio to high and slammed on the accelerator. _A demon,_ he told himself sternly, _does not have a favorite song. Get over yourself!_

~~~

“...and of course, the rain was just awful. I rather think- Crowley? Are you listening to me, dear boy?” Crowley shook himself. Aziraphale was looking at him strangely, almost pouting, though not quite drunk enough for the full lip-poking-out spectacle. Crowley sighed.

“Yes, sorry, Angel. You were saying the rain was awful?” Aziraphale squinted at him, and Crowley groaned internally, casting about for some new topic to distract the far-too-sober angel. “Oh, speaking of-” he began, sitting up suddenly with a surge of inspiration, “I ducked into the shops earlier, to avoid the worst of it. I got you something,” he finished, grinning. 

“Wha-” Aziraphale began, but Crowley cut him off, refilling his wine and practically skipping out the door with a quick “just a moment!” thrown back over his shoulder. Sure enough, less than a minute later he was back, strawberries in tow.

“I know you like desserts, so I figured…” Crowley trailed off, suddenly feeling awkward. “Well… I thought you’d like… They’re strawberries,” he offered. “They’ve been dipped in different kinds of chocolate.” Aziraphale stared silently at him for a beat… then two. Crowley shifted his weight. “Right. You don’t have to-”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Aziraphale interjected. He moved suddenly, as if realizing all at once that his awestruck silence almost cost him his prize. He launched himself out of his armchair, narrowly avoided spilling his wine, and found himself standing in front of Crowley, hands gripping the demon’s shoulders to lock him in place, eyes fixed on the box of strawberries.

Crowley, for his part, began to wonder whether getting Aziraphale drunk had been a good idea. Sure, the strawberries had been for him, and sure, Crowley was glad he was excited, but… well, Aziraphale tended to be less uptight when drunk, which meant that he touched Crowley a lot more, which was 

_quite nice, actually_

awkward. It was awkward. And uncomfortable. And still happening, while Crowley stared at the top of the angel’s head and gaped like a fish. Thankfully, Aziraphale was still staring at the sweet, natural, perfectly innocent object of his own affections...

“Right, right, here you go then,” Crowley ground out, shoving the box into Aziraphale’s hands. He felt dirty, suddenly; tainted, somehow. _Well of course I do,_ he thought bitterly, _I’m a demon._ Unbidden, that blasted song came to his mind again: _You’re just like an angel..._

“Well. Been fun, Angel, but I’ve gotta hit the road,” Crowley spat. Ignoring the sputtering and protesting behind him, the demon turned on his heel and walked out. This had gone on long enough.

~~~

Later that night in his apartment, Crowley paced restlessly. He’d tried tempting a few drunk fools at the local bar, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d threatened his plants, but quickly gave up, not wanting them to grow complacent as a result of his lackluster snarling. Finally, he threw himself down on the sofa, draping his long limbs haphazardly around him, and turned on the television with the vague notion that seeing reality stars rise to fame for their random, petty acts of evil might cheer him up.

_I want you to notice… When I’m not around…_

Crowley shot upright. This was getting out of hand. If even his television was throwing that blasted song in his face, then how could he possibly relax?

“…on tour in a city near you!” the commercial continued. Apparently, the band responsible for his misery was still on tour. Which, come to think of it, gave Crowley an idea… Perhaps he’d been going about this all wrong. Perhaps, if avoidance was not the answer to his problems, he could try a different strategy: immersion therapy.

Moving quickly now, Crowley jumped to his feet, striding about the room and grabbing the bare essentials – the keys to the Bentley, his sunglasses, a fashionable jacket – before hesitating in front of the phone. Abruptly, he turned and marched resolutely out the door. Most likely, Aziraphale wouldn’t even notice he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning. You are perfectly cast in your life. I can’t imagine anyone but you in the role. Go play.”  
> -Lin Manuel Miranda

The angel Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, was far too dignified to be doing anything that might be described as “fretting.” He had _standards_ , after all, and fretting was simply beneath him. What he was doing was… worrying, in a sensible manner. He was reasonably concerned. Oh sure, he was puttering around his bookshop aimlessly, pretending to restock the books without any real enthusiasm, but that wasn’t _fretting_. That was simply a side-effect of the concern. The completely reasonable, altogether justified, entirely dignified mild concern.

The source of Aziraphale’s concern was nowhere to be found, which was, in itself, concerning. In the earlier days of The Arrangement, Aziraphale would see Crowley only when strictly necessary, and was generally uncomfortable with the mere suggestion that their meetings become more frequent and less professional in nature. However, six thousand years (give or take) is a long time to spend getting to know another person, and lately, the angel had become accustomed to the demon’s steady presence in his life. 

A presence which, over the past few weeks, had been the exact opposite of steady.

It had all started that dreadful night with the strawberries. Aziraphale had been over the night again and again in his mind, fixating on it, turning their interactions around and around in an attempt to suss out what, exactly, could have caused Crowley’s sudden departure from his bookshop and, subsequently, his life. The part Aziraphale kept coming back to was those damned strawberries. He hadn’t _meant_ to make a scene, hadn’t meant to cling to Crowley like some overeager child, but… well, they’d looked delicious, and frankly, he’d been flattered that Crowley had thought of him. He’d been drunk. He’d been peckish. He’d been… he’d been…

He’d been a fool, he knew. Gaping like a fish at a simple box of chocolate-covered berries, leaping from his chair, clinging to Crowley’s arms. He’d made a fool of himself, a gluttonous, overeager fool, and now Crowley was gone.

At first, Aziraphale had assumed that the demon had simply been struck with a _mood_ , and that he’d be back within a day or two as if nothing had happened. Then, as time stretched on, the angel grew concerned. He’d phoned once or twice to no avail and had even gone by Crowley’s flat to ensure that everything was quite alright. After receiving no answer at the door, he’d let himself in, hoping to confirm a hunch: perhaps Crowley was simply tired again, and had decided to nap for a week or so. The flat, however, was empty. The terrified plants had watched silently as Aziraphale checked the couch, the bed, and even the bathroom before admitting that Crowley was truly nowhere to be found. The serpent of Eden wasn’t in his flat, the Bentley wasn’t in town, and Aziraphale was out of ideas, which led to his current state: puttering about a dusty old bookshop, definitely-not-fretting, blaming himself for the abrupt and unceremonious dissolution of The Arrangement.

It should be noted, here, that Aziraphale was not worried about the status of the arrangement. A little bit of tit-for-tat under the right circumstances was simply too practical an idea for him to worry about Crowley ever growing tired of it. Rather, Aziraphale was worried about the state of The Arrangement, the one with the capital letters, the one they absolutely didn’t talk about or acknowledge, the one that allowed an angel to let himself into the flat of a notorious demon, the one that allowed that same demon to bring chocolate-dipped strawberries to an old bookshop as a present to an inebriated angel, the one whose terms had always been vague and nebulous and had, apparently, included a “Do Not Clutch the Demon Like an Infatuated Child” clause. That Arrangement, Aziraphale knew, had always been more fragile than the formal arrangement, which of course meant that he, Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, fool and bumbling nimrod, had been doomed to shatter it from the beginning.

It was in the midst of these self-deprecating thoughts that Aziraphale heard it. Some unsuspecting civilian had wandered into his bookshop and was playing music. Out loud. Over a speaker. Happy for any distraction, Aziraphale started towards the front of the shop, preparing to deliver a truly outstanding dressing-down to whatever _heathen_ had decided to treat his shop like some common _nightclub_ … then stopped short.

_...you can look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I’m there…_

A young man was singing along softly with the music, browsing the shelves absent-mindedly. He was a gangly youth, the kind of human who seemed to have been built entirely of right angles, and he moved hunched over himself as if afraid that someone might notice him. He was also, Aziraphale noticed when the youth turned towards him, sporting the remains of a rather impressive black eye.

“ _I tell ya, Cellophane, Mr. Cell-_ Oh!” The boy startled, actually jumping a few inches backwards and nearly tripping over his own feet when he saw Aziraphale watching him from the back of the shop. “I’m… I’m sorry!” he stammered immediately, as if instinctively trying to apologize for existing where someone might notice him. “I was… it’s just… lovely bookshop, and I thought… Oh no, I was singing, and- right, I’ll go…” The poor boy looked like he might burst into tears at any moment, and didn’t seem likely to pause for breath anytime soon. Aziraphale felt himself softening.

“What was that song?” he interrupted gently. “It was lovely!” Smiling brightly, hands clasped in front of him, Aziraphale made a concentrated effort to appear non-threatening. The youth hesitated.

“It… I mean… Mr. Cellophane? From _Chicago_?” The boy gestured vaguely with one hand, in which he held a small, bright blue rectangular device from which music was still softly playing. An… iPod, Aziraphale remembered. A personal music player. Marvelous.

“...it’s really popular, and there’s better-known songs I guess, but I like this one best because it’s different, I’m still talking, please make me stop.” The poor boy looked like he might faint at any moment, or perhaps begin to cry. Aziraphale made a decision.

“It sounds lovely. Please, come in, I’ll make some tea, you can tell me all about it.”


End file.
